King Gabriel's Guide to Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone
by Mervyn Edmund MacIntyre
Summary: Let's take a 9-year-old Harry Potter, a prophecy child, and place him in a universe where legends live. Keep him miserable until he's dying, so his soul can cry. Cry hard enough and a King will come a-knocking. A King who's NOT happy. WIP — updating sporadically.


**Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't really _own_ Gabriel either, do I?**

Spiders scuttled into the bleakest, deepest depths of the cupboard—far from Harry. They concealed themselves where they couldn't see, for who would want to witness this? Witness a child dying, losing his grip the world—on reality. His insignificant stubs of crayon and strangled, seaweed soldiers littered the wooden walls. Poor, miserable things: they couldn't turn their backs.

The youth sucked in shallow, rattling breaths towards his skinny, skeleton body. Mould and grime caressed his fingers without care, seeping into the pale, blue things. Dust ran their hands through his limp hair; cobwebs crooned for his lost attention. The door hinges clanged in the sullen and damp night air. The nephew, the aunt, the uncle, they all didn't know of this horror. Two from blustering ignorance; the other from the dishonour of struggled starvation.

How long had they left him: days, weeks, months? The boy gave a pitiful sniffle into his threadbare blanket. Mucus and tears rested on it like an old friend, whispering shivering words of comfort into his ears. They stiffened, as though a soldier, at the breeze. You never spend time well on matters such as loneliness; yet he treated it like pocket change.

His soul fluttered in his chest. Such delicate, innocent items were souls. They sprinted where you couldn't see, dancing in the dainty sunlight of minds: it put cheetahs to shame. Harry's soul, if you peered in, flickered and fizzled in the grizzled gloom. It surged in its dove-bright light crying to the shadows. Another tear dropped onto the blanket; another hard-earned breath shook his frame. The powers—the magics—blessed him that sultry day: a King came a-knocking.

Souls are witty things, for they know when to pray instead of settling for an undeserving end. Pray to Cain, to Abel, to Gideon, to Gabriel: the four Kings, sons of the Empress. Ask, as a prophecy child, to the Fateful one and hope for His mercy. Cry to a forgotten deity and beg for forgiveness of unknown sins. GGoodwillit must be, as Gabriel will never abandon the children he chose.

Magic crackled and burst, lighting up the sky in a tumultuous ritual. The wind twisted into wolves of wonder, crying to the night with tears of loyalty. It picked up mounds of dirt and scattered them for the world to witness—earthworms cried in loss of their homes. Ravens perched on fragile stands to crow to the moon; foxes came from burrows, hoping to steal a glimpse. Thunder clapped in exhilaration, applauding the superior show.

It blazed in blurriness 'til the early morning, when His orders called for a "halt!" The stars spluttered to a standing stop and not a soul stirred. A wisp of magic floated by Harry's ear, whispering, _'Harry Potter…'_

The youth shot out of his cot with an impressive intensity. His breath quickened and slowed in rapid succession, unable to still to acceptance. His head was heavy and ached with dizziness. He brushed along his scar to find crusted blood and sighed: another headache? Harry got dressed at a good speed, yet his rumpled school clothes dismayed him.

He sat in his cupboard for a-time, listening to the whistling tune of the early morning birds. The boy felt almost at peace in such a hell.

It was a shame that ttranquillityhad to end.

At about 6 O'clock there was a furious rattling on his door. 'Boy!' Aunt Petunia screeched, 'I hope you're dressed! Vernon and Duddykins need their breakfast; you better not burn it!'

His cupboard door soon creaked open and a dishevelled boy stepped out from the hole.

'Yes, Aunt Petunia,' he whispered, dragging himself over to the kitchen. She sniffed at him, turned her nose upwards, and walked away—to wake up "Duddykins", Harry assumed.

Breakfast was a timely affair: bacon 'n' eggs for both his uncle and cousin—'Don't burn it!'—but a lighter dish for his aunt. He felt like a robot, tasked with doing the same concept over-and-over again. The hungry youth stuffed some crumbs into his mouth as Dudley thudded down the stairs. Uncle Vernon was in quick procession after him. The boy laid the table out with clumsiness. His cousin yelled his usual greeting ('Freak!') before slapping Harry on the back. He fell over shortly, grazing his knees; Uncle Vernon guffawed.

Then school reared its ugly head. Pencil stubs and paper balls ricocheted across the classroom like artillery. Harry always did more dodging than learning. Running, too. Sprinting across playground concrete, tatty old trainers scuffing against the stones. Ears not hearing the poison-barb jeers of his frightening fellows, only the wild. The bugs egged him on from rotting grass (thanks to the frost), cheering at his passing blur. The birds, ever loyal, squawked a cacophonous victory; yet he never won. God forbid! They'd pummel him into the pavement.

It had gone on for five years, since the tender age of four, forever a ticking clock. Harry grit his teeth when Dudley's gang caught him—he cried later, where no-one mocked him.

His headache worsened but he didn't ask for aspirin ('Nancy-boy! Finish your chores!'). It'd go away—it had to—as they didn't last forever, did they? It worried him though, which was unusual: it bubbled and snarled under his skin. Did it know his pain?

Harry sat squirrelled away in his cupboard, nursing bruised limbs. The moonlight greeted him through the cracks of his prison, teasing him with freedom. He fiddled with a toy soldier, whose lack of appendages definitely didn't bother him. His scar fizzled. Whatever, freaks like him didn't deserve new toys—or real bedrooms. His skin prickled and crackled in his brain. They got cupboards and drunkard parents who couldn't drive straight. They were _worthless!_

His scar erupted and his mind _roared._

_'Poor child...'_

Lights twirled in-front of him.

_'Prophecy child...'_

The wind screeched with fear and anticipation.

_'Has the power he knows not...'_

The thunder, well, thundered, swirling around Harry and sparking at his skin.

_'Harry...Potter...'_

The stars and the heavens sang, blazing in the sky—

_'Harry Potter.'_

And the magic soared.

_'Harry. POTTER!'_

_('Please not Harry!' she screamed, then slumped to the floor. A high-pitched laugh flooded the room. It said much—yet nothing of consequence—but, in reality, only, 'Avada Kedavra!')_

_(A green light soared through the air, hitting its target—and the man screamed.)_

Harry fainted before _he_ could scream.


End file.
